It falters not with fate’s wicked thrill.
Love waits. Love heals. Love shines.
Tristan’s aspect may have changed, his demeanour more muted, but he was still…Tristan.
His gaze so tender as his daughter spoke. His innate politeness to Miss Brecken and the captain. His teasing wit with Mrs Pugh. His pleasure at the happiness Rhys had found with Isabelle.
As one would expect, his voice was gruff now, as though someone had taken sandpaper to his throat, but it imbued his laugh with a sensual rasp, and his hair was longer too but it suited his sharp cheekbones.
Her heart still quickened when he was near. Her breath still shallowed. Her eyes still craved him.
Yesterday, he’d asked her to tell him of those memories he’d lost to the sea…
But she could not fill those memories with her own. Compel him to feel a love that the Tristan who had returned plainly did not feel.
Yes, he felt affection for her. But it was an affection he remembered from long ago.
As a friend.
A friend with whom he felt…comfortable.
No desire had lit his eyes or deeper tenderness had tipped his lips, and she would not, could not add to his burden.
If fate allowed, perhaps those memories would return of their own accord and only then–
“I’ll be but a moment, my lady.”
Nodding, she watched as Jonnet leaped from his saddle to release the latch on the wooden gate that Sir Henry, who owned the adjoining land, had installed to keep his small herd of horses within his own parcel of the woods.
She allowed her mare to amble through and waited for Jonnet to remount. From here, it was solely another mile to her home and, as a rule, she would trot there in a sedate ladylike manner, but today…
She wished to feel the wind loosen her hair, the thud of hooves resound within her body and the thrum of life within.
Not many knew of her love of riding in such a manner…except one.
For covertness – and this being Wales not London – she’d eschewed the carriage and its attendants for riding to Tristan’s boat shed alone at breakneck speed and he’d greeted her with a hoicked brow followed by laughter and a wicked smile, hands to her waist as he’d aided her descent.
The school for ladies in Caernarfon and then London society had rubbed away her wilder inclinations, honing her to a delicate debutante, but returning to her homeland had reminded her those inclinations were still there.
“Yah!” she cried, and her mare whinnied before galloping off through field and meadow.
Chill air burned her throat, the scenery a blur of every hue of green, and she adored every wild moment.
Soon enough, as Jonnet caught up, the towers of Penffordd Manor came into view with their high-reaching finials and cupolas. A Jacobean three-storey home of greyed sandstone, it had survived raids, fires and floods.
Approaching the flight of stairs at the entrance, a groom hurried to greet her mare, as did Papa who rushed down the steps with arms flapping and white hair gusting.
She really must speak to his valet, Carew, about that trim.
“Papa, are you well?”
“Oh, Gwen dear, it’s been chaos without you! Chaos!” He embraced her and she breathed in fresh tobacco and aged books. “I received your message about Lord Tristan. What joyous news!”
“Indeed, Papa. It has all been quite overwhelming.”
“Well, come in and tell me all.” He peered at her face. “But have you fever? Your cheeks are most flushed.”
“I galloped the last mile after the woods, Papa.”
